


Double-Kick & Rhythm

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Series: Dethklok Drabbles-a-Roonie-Doonie [4]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 10:25:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15928499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: A collection of short stories that center around Pickles and Toki doin' stuff.





	Double-Kick & Rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was "Pickles/Toki, friction," [from this list](http://atmilliways.tumblr.com/post/173966632187/metalocalypse-prompts%22).

Few things in Pickles’ life would ever top strangling Seth at his own wedding, but goddamn if giving that Ricky Kixx bastard a taste of his fist wasn’t right up there. When he was done with that, Pickles wheeled around and squinted over the heads of the now rioting, drinking, pill-popping, shooting-up crowd. When he spotted Toki, the younger man met his gaze with an ice blue scowl and jerked his thumb impatiently towards the nearest exit. Pickles nodded back and jumped down from the stage, shoving his way through the crush of people and snagging a half full handle of something or other, who the hell cared, along the way.

It was this… It was this vibe or something. Pickles never really thought about it, but it was like, every time he or Toki went a while without letting off some steam in the form of violence, they got… Fuck. Blue balls of the soul or whatever. And, whenever they both unleashed at the same time, they always knew.

Luckily it didn’t happen all that often, because that was some freaky-ass psychic shit, and Pickles didn’t believe in psychics.

When Murderface started trying to father Skwisgaar, though, Pickles started to feel that itch. He broke Murderface’s phone and relished when Nathan slapped him across the face, but that wasn’t enough. And yeah, maybe he went a little out of his way to get Toki riled up about it too, but honestly it wasn’t like he’d had to try very hard. Anyway, the rush of having backup on kicking the crap out of Murderface was like no other. Totally worth it. 

“CUT THAT SHIT OUT,” Nathan bellowed at them. Actual fathering skills right there, Pickles supposed, but it was okay because Nathan was a Friend, not a Dad. “The fucking jet's about to take off and I forgot to TiVo that cannibal documentary. If I miss any of it I am not going to be happy.”

“Get the butlers to does it,” Toki whined, at the same time Pickles snapped, “Dude we don’t even have TiVo, what the fuck year is it?” 

But when Nathan took one menacing step towards them, the drummer just brayed manic laughter in his face and swung away, grabbing Toki by the arm and dragging them towards the back of the aircraft. “C’mon Toki, I gotta smoke a bowl or somethin’.”

There were bedrooms in the jet. Pretty basic ones, about like Toki’s room back at Mordhaus only even smaller and plainer. It didn’t matter; they didn’t care where they went. That time after the doomed sober concert went to hell they'd just ended up in the nearest convenient alley.

As soon as there was a shut door between them and the rest of the band, Pickles grabbed a fistful of T-shirt and yanked, mashing their faces together. Toki bit the shorter man’s lip on impact — Pickles didn’t give a shit if it was on purpose or not — and shoved him against a wall before pressing and grinding hard against him. Then it was all scrambling to get their own pants undone, and each other’s, and fuck belts, and not getting a chance to breath for all the teeth-clashing, demanding, desperate connection of their mouths, less like a kiss and more like a brawl. 

Pickle's whole life had always revolved around conflict and Toki's around pain, and it was like they needed this friction the same way they needed the heavy music they played. Blunt nails dug into skin. Someone lost a zipper pull in the frantic urgency. Pickles managed to somehow get one leg out of his jeans, leaving them to dangle off one ankle as he hauled himself up the taller man. Toki pinned him in place against the wall with lung-crushing efficiency. With his own pants and boxers pushed down to his knees, he shoved his hand into Pickles' cramped tightie-used-to-be-whities and squeezed their cocks together. It was just this side of too hard, and filled their senses with black-hot static crackling pleasure. Release was so close, and they both craved it and wanted to draw things out… 

Because the ride — the friction, the high — was almost better than the destination, each hit leaving them secretly looking forward to the next time they could rip into each other, draining the past and bile and anger from all the old wounds by making new ones. 


End file.
